


The Truth May Need Re-Arranging

by sirenofodysseus



Category: The Mentalist
Genre: Apologies, Canon Compliant, Craig O'Laughlin's a Dick, Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-07
Updated: 2019-01-07
Packaged: 2019-10-05 21:37:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17332805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sirenofodysseus/pseuds/sirenofodysseus
Summary: Post 4x01. Grace leans against the doorway, crossing her arms against her chest as Jane fiddles around in her cabinets. She glances upwards, praying she doesn’t ultimately end up shooting him before the day’s out. “What are you doing in my home?”





	The Truth May Need Re-Arranging

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from The Human League's song, (Keep Feeling) Fascination.

There’s a knock and then, there’s his voice, “I know you’re in there, Grace.”

 

She sits on her creme couch, legs tucked beneath her as she presses the beige throw pillow against her lips to quiet her sobs. She knows she’ll have a bright stain later on, but she doesn’t care -- it’ll all be worth it, she thinks, especially if she can fool Jane into leaving.

 

Of course, nothing can fool Patrick Jane; as less than a minute later, she watches as the doorknob to her apartment slowly twists and turns until the door opens. Standing before her, one arm full of paper bags, he merely smiles. “Want to point me in the direction of your kitchen?” Grace stares and Jane chuckles. “Ah, never mind. I see it.” She watches him shut the front door before he disappears into her kitchen and she sighs, the throw pillow dropping from her fingers. She uses one of her hands to wipe the wetness from her eyes and then, she’s hesitantly stepping toward her kitchen where Jane’s thrown on one of her most pink and frilliest aprons. “Before you begin to lecture me on the legalities of breaking and entering, I’d like to point out that I’ve broke nothing.”

 

Grace leans against the doorway, crossing her arms against her chest as he fiddles around in her cabinets. She glances upwards, praying she doesn’t ultimately end up shooting him before the day’s out. “What are you doing in my home?”

 

He doesn’t stop his fiddling to reply, “cooking dinner for you. You must be starving.” She says nothing and Jane continues. “I’ve seen the meager belongings in your refrigerator and well, I’m almost sure that milk expired two weeks ago.”

 

“I’ve had other things on my mind, aside from grocery shopping.” Like the fact her fiancé had turned out to be an associate of Red John’s, who had almost killed herself, Teresa Lisbon and Madeleine Hightower in one fair swoop.

 

“Oh, I’m sure of it,” Jane tells her, matter-of-factually. Grace considers the legalities of using her gun, after all, the bastard _did_ break into her home. “Ah, I wouldn’t. While Lisbon would most certainly understand, I hear the courts aren’t all for vigilante justice these days. After all, I’m _just_ fixing you a well-deserved dinner.”

 

“I wasn’t considering shooting you,” she lies, after a moment of silence.

 

Jane calls her on it. “While you’re a _slightly_ better liar than Lisbon, you’re still a bad liar.” She watches as he removes one of her stainless-steel pots from below her sink, before he turns his head toward her. “So, how are you with a blade?”

 

“You’re going to let me use a blade?” she asks in surprise. It’s been a few weeks since Craig O’Laughlin, but everyone’s been treating her as though she’s about to break in two. She’s not some fragile little girl, who can’t do her own paperwork like Lisbon, Rigsby and Cho seem to believe. She’s tough. But Jane’s question still makes her question him. “What if I cut myself or something?” He stands up from beneath her sink again and wipes his hands on the hem of her apron, before he eyes her.

 

“Are you planning on harming yourself, Grace?”

 

“Of course not!”

 

“Then I don’t see why you can’t use a blade,” Jane replies, as he sets down an onion and one of her blades on the counter space. “Dice those up.” Without being told to do so, Grace rolls her sleeves up and washes her hands in the sink. She then turns to handle the onion, channeling her frustration into dicing the vegetable for whatever Jane’s making. Afterwards, he hands her a head of lettuce and several other vegetables, all of which she washes and dices without further instruction. “When you were frustrated as a child, you channeled that into baking, didn’t you?”

 

Grace doesn’t ask how he knows, but she has a feeling that something in her kitchen has given away her baking obsession. Instead, she responds to his inquiry. “Dad thought running was a good solution for fixing everything. Mom didn’t share his opinion. She liked to bake as often as she possibly could.” A small smile tugs at her lips at the memory of her mother, surrounded by a tableau of decadent treats.

 

“They say baking is the equivalent of therapy,” Jane tells her, before he adds. “Of course, I only know how to cook.”

 

“So I’ve seen,” she replies, vaguely recalling a moment from one of their earlier cases where he had fixed dinner for a murderer. Grace had excused herself prior to actually assisting with the meal, due to Jane’s master plan. Another question is out of her mouth, before she thinks of the implications. “Did you use to do the cooking for your family?” Jane goes silent and Grace frowns, realizing how stupid her question was. “Oh, Jane. I’m...”

 

“No, it’s alright,” he tells her, but the hand that goes to his wedding band tells her that it’s not. “I did, before our daughter was born.” Grace stares down at the mess of vegetables on her cutting board, not sure of what to say. “Afterwards, I was just...too busy.”

 

Although she’s not Jane, she can read between the lines too and all she can do is cross her arms in response.

 

                                                                                                                                 ::::

 

“What isn’t cured by red wine and pasta?” Jane asks her, after he’s sat the bottle of wine between them both. On her sofa, bare-foot, she almost feels inclined to agree with him after her first bite - until she remembers, no amount of pasta is going to fix the guilt or anger she has. She pushes her food across her plate and avoids Jane’s stare, even though she knows he’s watching her. When she had first started working with him, his stare would have unnerved her; however, shooting her fiancé in cold blood seems to have changed that entirely. “You’re obviously starving, Grace.”

 

“I’m fine, Jane,” Grace tells him.

 

His stare only intensifies. “You aren’t.”

 

Suddenly very angry, she slams her plate down onto her coffee table. “You think you know everything, don’t you?” Jane says nothing and Grace continues, her voice rising until she feels she’s at her breaking point. “Where was this _mightier-than-thou_ attitude, four weeks ago, when I was planning my engagement with him? Did you just feel it wasn’t an appropriate time to out my then-fiancé of his murderous intentions or what?” Shaking with anger, Grace’s world seems to spin until Jane’s voice is in her ear telling her to _breathe in_ and then _breathe out_. She does as he instructs, until the world stops spinning and she’s left feeling as though she’s just run a marathon.

 

It’s only when Jane responds, “I just didn’t see it,” that Grace finally glances at him. He looks sad and remorseful and it twists her stomach, almost painfully. None of it was Jane’s fault; it was all hers. “Grace, I’m sorry. I was too focused on the larger picture that I failed to realize the mole was O’Laughlin until it was far too late.”

 

She bites her bottom lip. “It’s not your fault, Jane. It’s mine. I should have realized something was off about him.” She glances away from him, until she feels his hands on hers. “So, I’m sorry for...”

 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he interrupts. “Grace, individuals _far_ smarter than you or I have been fooled by Red John and his many friends.” Grace watches him shake his head. “If not you, it would have been myself, Rigsby, Lisbon or Cho.” She hears him chuckle and she glances at him, out of curiosity. “Although stressful and quite upsetting for you regarding O’Laughlin, my dear, I’d hate to imagine what Red John would have sent for Cho.”

 

Unable to help herself, Grace joins Jane in his laughter.


End file.
